


So Much More

by Etheostoma



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate/Ambiguous Ending, Angsty Javert, Because They are Happy, But Also Happy Javert, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Is it Brick?, Is it Movie?, Is it Musical?, Kisses, M/M, vague timeline, we don't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27473746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: It starts with a kiss.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	So Much More

**Author's Note:**

> Small character study that turned out a little lengthier than I had intended, so I said, welp, let's go ahead and post it! 
> 
> Drop a line if you read and enjoy, I always love getting different opinions/perspectives on characters and interpretations.

It starts with a kiss.

Lips meet as one mouth finds another, a gentle sharing of space and breath as the two unlikeliest of souls find solace in each other. The motion is fleeting, just the lightest of contacts as one mouth—full and smooth and inclined to gentle smiles—brushes ever so lightly against the one thin and chapped and more often than not turned down in a frown. At first, the touch is chaste, tentative—lips parting and sliding feather-light across one another in one of the most basic expressions of human affection.

A kiss can go one of an infinite amount of different ways—a swift, unrepentant claiming of one mouth by another; a passionate domination; a flustered, inexperienced half-kiss that stutters and gutters like a dying flame. It can happen only once, or not at all. It can be laughed off, construed as a mistake, conclude in rejection or regret.

With them, it does not.

Instead, Javert takes Valjean in his arms—gently, as if he were the single-most fragile and precious being in the world—and he kisses him as though that world were about to end. He kisses him as though there is no one more important—there is not. He kisses him as though he is a desert nomad and Valjean his oasis—and surely, he is, for Javert has never been this thirsty. Javert’s kisses are tender and asking, giving rather than taking, finally after all the years of his life existing for the sole pleasure of another.

His kisses are sure and unrepentant, his mind and motions measured certain in his knowledge that there will be no other after Jean Valjean, just as there has been no other before him.

Sometimes, the contact between them is simple, a silent communication between lips and hands that progresses no further. Fingers twine and loop and link, interlocked and inseparable, the gentle pressure from their respective grips mirroring that of the contact between their mouths. These are the gentlest of touches, the lightest and simplest—and oftentimes, they are those which convey the most emotion, transfer the depth of one man’s feelings to the other. Javert can lose himself in these embraces, submerge himself in the slip and sigh of a breath that starts in one chest and ends in another, the warmth of Valjean’s body pressing against his own and the thrum of that indomitable heart beneath his palms.

Palm-to-palm marks another point of contact, one that Javert cherishes more than he can adequately put into words. Their hands will rest together, flat against a surface—whether splayed out flat against the wall behind or clasped rather more chastely between them—Valjean’s resting on top, calluses and life lines aligning with Javert’s. Pressed together like this, Javert can feel Valjean’s pulse in his palms, feel the lines and whorls mapping out his life and future as they meet and meld with his own. There are tiny pricks of pain where Valjean’s nails curl inward with some particularly deft caress of Javert’s tongue, fingers twisting and tangling together as the kiss evolves.

Valjean’s hands are an unyielding weight and pressure that coordinate with the movement of his mouth on Javert’s to initiate those first faint stirrings of desire, coaxing him into something _more._

Kisses only intensify with duration, _their_ kisses especially so. Javert and Valjean sink deeper into the depths of their embrace as it grows, as that inevitable thrill rushes down their spines, gentle pressure met with a firm, insistent response and an unyielding enthusiasm that ups the ante and drives the embrace into new territory. More forceful now, Javert’s mouth moves across Valjean’s lips, caressing and teasing them even as he traces the contours of their surface. Each pass of his lips is an opportunity to memorize, to learn, to commit every bump and crevice to the mental map that he is constructing of Valjean’s body. It has fast become his greatest and most treasured internal possession.

Valjean responds in turn, his mouth working teasingly against Javert’s, reciprocating the former Inspector’s movements and mirroring the tilt of his head, matching the angle of his approach and meeting him caress for caress.

It is a game meant for two, and one that they now have long since mastered.

Arms shift and rise, Valjean’s more often than not wrapped tightly about Javert’s lean waist or broad shoulders, drawing him ever closer and holding the other man to him as tightly as physics might allow. At the width of Javert’s shoulders, Valjean’s hands might curl around to his back, rest just on or below his shoulder blades and _press_ , an insistent presence driving Javert ever forward into his chest and into _him_. At his waist, Valjean’s arms drape about him lovingly, curling around hips and joining at the small of his back, again propelling the other man forward so that they might eliminate the remaining space between themselves.

Javert does not sit idle, hands pressing insistently into Valjean's skin, guiding Valjean’s solid frame into Javert’s embrace, holding him securely there as he bares his soul. His fingers, oft-conditioned to grip cudgel or manacle, might instead rise to comb through Valjean’s white mane of hair, to curl and curve about the contours of his cheeks with a look of wonderment shining in his eyes.

As desire rises, stoked like the embers of a growing flame, Javert’s tongue darts out, tasting the world—for _Valjean_ is his world, his one and only—passing lightly across skin already tingling from earlier ministrations. It seeks entry, quests for a closer, more intimate melding of mouths. Pliant, full lips part to allow his tongue entry, and the kiss escalates to yet another level, another measure of intensity and passion.

Javert takes his time as he explores the familiar surfaces of Valjean’s mouth, following well-traveled routes and creating new paths alike, trailing across teeth and over gums, swiping gently across the inside of his mouth and sending his body into tingling, delightful spasms.

Then their tongues meet, and Javert and Valjean are each lost, desire flooding their bodies, coursing as thickly and readily as blood as it pounds through their veins with each echoing thud of their hearts.

Javert plasters himself against Valjean, their bodies connected at every possible juncture, separated only by the layers of their clothing. Hard fits against soft, puzzle pieces clicking together, two halves finally connecting to make whole. The contact is instinct-driven, Valjean’s hands having long since migrated to Javert’s face, one large palm cupping his chin, thumb resting along the contours of his jaw with his fingers curled up and around the opposite cheek as he holds Javert’s mouth to his own. The other hand is nestled at the back of the taller man’s head, buried in thick silvering curls and making short work of any ties or restraints therein, setting the luscious waves free to tumble down around his neck and shoulders.

Javert’s own hands are fastened around Valjean’s neck, clinging to him for support just as much as to draw his mouth to his own, refusing to allow Valjean to retreat. Javert’s heart pounds in his chest, a steady and fevered drum of blood through his veins, hammering out one rush of sensation after the next. He who has spent his entire life calculatingly cold and unfeeling now _feels,_ more deeply than perhaps any other might lay claim.

From this point, as that instinctive dance of tongues and the heady brush of what exposed skin each bears gives way to more base desires, the stakes rise.

Javert’s hands slide down along Valjean’s sides to the hem of his shirt—waistcoats and cravats long since discarded, leaving them only in their shirtsleeves—and slip under and upward. Slowly, he begins to explore the still-smooth planes of Valjean’s stomach, thumb brushing through the trail of hair down his stomach and eliciting a groan. Those fingers—once brutal and unforgiving, now reawakened with new purpose—ghost over Valjean’s sides and stomach and send a shudder like a bolt of lightning racing up along the arc of his spine. Gradually rising in altitude, Javert’s searching fingers brush the well-defined lines of Valjean’s abdomen, creep upward to massage the firm musculature of his pectorals. His questing hands span the impressive breadth of Valjean’s chest, a pianist at his keys, tap-dancing through that smattering of curling white hair that his fingers know so well.

The hands resting at his own waist clench Valjean groans low in his throat, chest rumbling beneath Javert’s palms, the sound lost in his mouth as their kiss continues. Valjean drives himself into Javert’s touch, back arching in abject pleasure, abandoning himself entirely in the pursuit of sensation. Gone are his reserve, his inherent aloofness and that adorably aggravating shyness that has plagued him throughout the long days of their relationship.

Deft fingers dance around to Valjean’s back, smooth across raised and ropy scars, dip into furrows and slide across valleys carved by lashes long past but never forgotten. Their touch is an apology, a benediction—a promise. He kneads the breadth of Valjean’s back with adroit fingers, working the worn surface much as a potter tends to his clay, the skin supple and smooth beneath his touch.

Awash with sensation, Valjean allows his eyes to flutter closed, his vice-like grip shifting up to Javert’s shoulders, fastening herself to him the taller man to prevent suddenly-weak knees from buckling. He breaks their kiss now, turning swollen lips to the expanse of dark skin spread invitingly before him, trailing slow, fervent kisses along Javert’s neck, darting his tongue out to taste the sting of salt on sweat-dampened flesh.

Valjean’s progress is agonizingly slow, and Javert’s ministrations cease, hands slipping listlessly from Valjean’s chest to linger at his waist as he is flooded with sensation, synapses working overtime as his nerves hasten to interpret the surge of sensation coursing through his body. His pulse thrums in his throat, its measured beats shifting erratically as Valjean’s lips and tongue dance lightly across his neck. He moans, the sound torn unwilling from his throat, his hips rolling forward to rock against Valjean’s solid thigh. Dark lashes flutter as he cants his head back, bares his throat in uncharacteristic surrender to Valjean’s ministrations.

Chuckling, Valjean presses his advantage, wedging his thigh more firmly between Javert’s spread legs, sucking lightly on his neck as the other man moans.

Another day, they might end it here, table their lust and straighten their clothes and share shy, satisfied smiles, spending the evening curled up together on a sofa with a book, or set up across from one another over a chessboard.

Today, however, as on many days prior, they continue.

Javert’s slip from beneath Valjean’s shirt to begin their attack on the article of clothing itself, fingers seeking out buttons until he can slip it from those broad shoulders and cast it carelessly aside. Clothes begin to disappear layer by layer, what remnants are left, exposing skin flushed and rippling with sensation. Valjean’s chest, still muscled and broad decades later, tenses and flexes as Javert mouths a line of kisses across it, moving from one side to another before taking Valjean’s hands in his pressing his lips to wrists encircled by smooth bands of shiny scar tissue.

Their embrace is so much more than one of endless passion. The lust and desire are undercut by a current of genuine affection, a wellspring of love, desire and respect that runs clear and true. Theirs is a partnership and kinship of spirits unparalleled by all others—Javert was meant for Valjean, just as Valjean was meant for Javert.

There can be no other way about it.

Valjean’s head tucks neatly beneath Javert’s chin when they embrace, Javert’s arms and chest mold around Valjean’s broad torso, encompassing his body in his hold and keeping him nestled tightly against him. Chest-to-chest, they share kisses and breath and saliva, mouths moving in tandem as their hearts beat a syncopated rhythm between them. Where it meets, their skin all but fuses, melding them into a single entity bonded by physical as well as emotional means.

Never in his life would Javert have dared to dream that he would ever— _could_ ever—be so loved, or that he himself would love in return. Jean Valjean, diamond in the rough, his intellectual equal and emotional and spiritual superior. Every moment spent in Valjean’s company is infinitely precious, every conversation cherished and locked away in memory. Regardless of whether they are locked in an intense debate, caught up in a quiet moment of passion, or simply seated in comfortable silence engrossed in their respective books, there is nowhere Javert feels more at home than in the arms of Valjean, their bodies and lives inexplicably and inextricably intertwined.

Now, they have each other, each man wholly and undeniably the other’s, and Javert is never letting go. Happiness has graced his life so little, love played so minor a role, that he has vowed up and down that he will never forsake it—nor allow it to forsake him. He questions still his right to happiness, cannot stave off the instinctive habit to constantly check over his shoulder for that inevitable wave of karma, but Valjean—oh yes, Jean Valjean certainly deserves to be loved, to be _cherished_.

Javert rests his arms on Valjean’s bare shoulders, turning that blue-flame gaze of his upon Valjean’s face. One hand flits to trace his cheek, cup his chin, follow the curve of his neck down to his collarbone. His eyes never leave Valjean’s, blue boring into hazel, his focus only on the older man, on the single most important being in his life—the other half he never endeavored to imagine that he deserved. Without speaking a word, he presses his hands to that beloved back, traces furrowed scars with more than a trace of sorrow, and brings his mouth to bear on Valjean’s, dominating his lips and claiming his body and soul while simultaneously offering up his own.

It starts with a kiss, but it ends with so much more.


End file.
